He turned around wildly and let go of his line; it followed the bonnet that was being carried down the river, while the fat man lay on his back and roared with laughter. The lady disheveled and amazed, choked with rage; her husband also grew angry and demanded the price of the bonnet, for which Patissot paid at least three times its value.
Then the whole family departed with much dignity.
Patissot took another rod and sat bathing sandworms until night. His neighbor slept soundly on the grass, and awoke about seven o’clock.
“Let’s leave,” said he.
So Patissot pulled in his line, but gave a cry and sat down hard in his astonishment. A tiny fish was wriggling at the end of the string. On examining it they found that it was pierced through the middle; the hook had caught in it when being drawn out of the water.
It gave Patissot triumphant, unbounded joy. He wanted it fried for himself alone.
During dinner the intimacy of the two friends increased. Patissot learned that the big man lived in Argenteuil and had sailed boats for thirty years without discouragement. He agreed to breakfast with him the following Sunday, and to take a sail in his clipper, the Plongeon.
He was so interested in the conversation that he forgot all about his catch. After the coffee it recurred to him and he insisted that it should be served.
It looked like a yellow and twisted match dropped in the middle of the plate. But he ate it with pride, and going home on the omnibus he told his fellow-passengers that he had caught fourteen pounds of fry that day.
V
Two Famous Men
Monsieur Patissot had promised his friend, the boating man, that he would spend the following Sunday with him. An unforeseen circumstance interfered with his plans. He met one of his cousins whom he very seldom saw. He was an amiable journalist, standing very well in all the various social sets, and he offered his assistance to Patissot to show him all sorts of interesting things.
“What are you going to do next Sunday, for instance?” he inquired.
“I am going to Argenteuil to have some boating.”
“Oh, come, now! That’s a bore, your boating; there is no variety in it. I’ll take you with me. I will introduce you to two celebrated men, and we’ll visit the homes of two artists.”
“But I am ordered to go to the country.”
“I’ll make a call on Meissonier, on the way, at his place at Poissy. Then we’ll walk to Medan, where Zola lives. I have a commission to secure his next novel for our journal.”
Patissot, wild with joy, accepted the invitation.
He even bought a new frock-coat, that he might make a good appearance, his old one being a little worn, and he was horribly afraid lest he should say foolish things, either to the painter or the man of letters, as most persons do when they speak about an art which they have never practised.
He told his fears to his cousin, who began to laugh, saying to him: “Bah! Only pay compliments, nothing but compliments, always compliments, that carries off the foolish things, if you happen to say any. You know Meissonier’s pictures?”
“I should think so!”
“You have read the Rougon-Macquart series?”
“From beginning to end.”
“That suffices. Mention a picture from time to time, speak of a novel occasionally, and add ‘Superb! Extraordinary!! Delicious execution!! Wonderfully powerful!’ That is the way to get along. I know that those two men are fearfully surfeited with everything: but you see praises always please an artist.”
Sunday morning they set out for Poissy.
They found Meissonier’s place a few steps from the station at the end of the church square. Passing through a low gate painted red, which led into a magnificent arbor of vines, the journalist stopped, and turning toward his companion, asked:
“What do you think Meissonier is like?”
Patissot hesitated. Finally he replied:
“A small man, very well groomed, shaven, and with a military air.” The other man smiled and said:
“That is good. Come.”
An odd structure built like a chalet appeared at the left, and at the right, almost opposite a little tower, was the main house. It was a singular looking building, with a little of all styles of architecture about it—the Gothic fortress, the manor, the villa, the cottage, the residence, the cathedral, the mosque, the pyramid, with a strange mingling of Oriental and Occidental methods of building. It was certainly of a most wonderfully complicated style, enough to drive a classical architect crazy; nevertheless, there was something fantastic and beautiful about it, and it had been planned by the painter and executed under his orders.
They entered: a collection of trunks filled a little parlor. A small man appeared clad in a jacket. The most striking thing about him was his beard; it was a prophet’s beard, of incredible size, a river, a flood, a Niagara of a beard. He greeted the journalist:
“Pardon me, my dear Monsieur, but I arrived only yesterday, and everything is still at sixes and sevens in the house. Sit down.”
The other refused, excusing himself:
“My dear master, I, came only to present my homage, as I was passing by.” Patissot, very much embarrassed, kept bowing at each of his friend’s words, as if by an automatic movement, and he murmured, stammering a little: “What a su‑su‑superb place!” The painter, flattered, smiled pleasantly, and offered to show it to them.
He led them first to a little pavilion of feudal aspect, in which was his former studio, looking out on a terrace. Then they passed through a drawing room, a dining room, a vestibule full of marvelous works of art, of adorable Beauvais, and hung with Gobelin and Flanders tapestries. But the strange luxury of ornamentation of the exterior became, on the inside, a luxury of prodigious stairways. It was a magnificent stairway of honor, a hidden stairway in one tower,
